


half past ten

by deathlytireddan



Series: ghosts in the telephone lines [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, but here we are, never thought i’d write one of these
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 19:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathlytireddan/pseuds/deathlytireddan
Summary: “Hi?” Phil whispers, clears his throat and spits out his sleeve. “What—“What year is it?





	half past ten

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this idea while I was brushing my teeth last night and wrote it last night when I should’ve been sleeping. Yawn. 
> 
> Warnings: a couple fucks. Not much else. A really weird, probably stupid concept that really doesn’t make much sense and has several gaping plot holes?

“Phil, please come outside.”

His mum’s voice is nervous, hopeful, excited, as she opens his bedroom door and gestures for him to follow.

He walks outside, the chatter of his brother and his friends nothing compared to the rushing in his ears.

“Get in the car, Philip,” his mum says, suddenly appearing near him, smiling nervously and pointing.

Phil opens his mouth, closes it. He’s terrified, excited, anxious, wishing this was all just some strange dream. 

(Not that strange, as he’s been having them for years. Most everyone has them. And it’s easy to understand why. _One phone call. One chance. The slightest difference and it might all be for nothing_.)

—

The room is small, white, and mostly empty. A little table, single chair, no window. He’s been told what to expect by family, parents, friends, tv adverts. 

Still.

It’s fucking horrifying. 

The phone, a plastic red rotary that could have been there since the 1960s, is ringing.

The door closes behind Phil with a bang. He swallows nervously, throat dry and feeling like it’s full of cotton. 

Phil sits nervously, reaches for the phone, and picks it up.

“Philip Michael Lester. Philip Michael Lester. Philip Michael Lester.”

The voice is repeating over and over, a crackly automated thing that makes Phil’s teeth ache.

“Here,” he whispers, hoarse, biting down on his shirt sleeve.

The voice ends abruptly. 

Phil waits, waits, waits. He can’t hear anything from this room, knows his mum is just on the other side but feels miles from anything.

“Hello?” Unmistakably male, posher than his own.

Phil’s heart stops, wobbles feebly, like a car engine trying to start in the cold.

“Hi?” Phil whispers, clears his throat and spits out his sleeve. “What—“

 _What year is it?_

“2009,” the voice says, or gasps. “What year is it for you? Please.”

Phil starts to cry.

It’s a great big, gasping, snotty thing. He tries to say something, finds he can’t around the cotton and the relief and the shock. 

“2–2–2009. 19th of October.” Phil pushes out. “Where are you? Where do you live?”

There isn’t an answer, for a minute. He hears sniffing, a small giggle. “Reading. England. 19th of October. Uh, half past ten in the morning. Are you northern?”

“Yes!” Phil laughs wetly. “Near Manchester.”

He searches his pockets, finds a pen nearly out of ink but no paper. He puts the phone in the crook between his ear and shoulder and pushes his sleeve up. “Please, what’s your phone number, what’s your address?”

He can’t believe he’s asking those questions. He’s never met a single person who’s been able to ask those questions. 

( _”Mummy, what year was yours from?” Phil’s six year old mind is just beginning to understand what his older cousins talk about together, what all the adverts are about._

 _She smiles, the sad kind that means she’s trying not to look sad. “1923, I think it was.”_ )

They exchange information and barely have another moment after the last number is spoken before the line is cutting out and Phil is setting the red plastic down. 

He thinks he’ll remember that exact shade for the rest of his life.

The door opens. His mum looks in nervously, partly hidden by the government worker that had brought him here.

“2009. The 19th of October. Half past ten in the morning. Near Reading.” 

She covers her mouth with her hands. Even the stern government worker smiles brightly, and hands him a pack of tissues.

His phone chimes as he steps into the brisk air, pack of tissues clutched in his hand and mum following behind, speechless.

_Hi, half past ten_

_I’m Dan Howell_

_Your soulmate I guess ^_^_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this strange little thing :)


End file.
